


Apartment 16a

by Who_let_the_hellhounds_out



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_let_the_hellhounds_out/pseuds/Who_let_the_hellhounds_out
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>work in progress! bear with me but it's gonna be rlly cute trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apartment 16a

**1/CAS**

 

Castiel Novak climbed the last few steps to the front door of his brownstone apartment and shrugged off the light dusting of snow that laced his dark eyelashes and the shoulders of his trenchcoat: shedding the weighted  of the fresh concerns the day had brought. 

It didn't quite work, and he slumped against the doorframe for just a moment, allowing himself briefly to feel a strain of self pity before straightening up and fitting key to lock. The night was crisp and clear, and a younger Castiel would've taken advantage of that, driving out to where all the lights of Brooklyn couldn't dull the bright, numinous pinpricks of light that colonised the watered silk of the sky's evening gown. 

 Agent Castiel Novak, however, turned his back to the night's chilly embrace and entered the place he called home.

 

 

 

## 1/DEAN

 

 

_APARTMENT 16b-_  

_Spacious two-bedroom apartment with eat-in kitchen with dishwasher. One spare room and roomy master bedroom large enough for a king sized bed. This beautifully renovated apartment has hardwood flooring and..._

 Dean's eyes skimmed over the text for what had to be the hundredth time as he dragged a hand down his face, eyelids fluttering closed over emerald eyes, now sore and bloodshot from the bright glare of the laptop screen in front of him. His palm skidded over the early morning stubble that had arrived uninvited onto his jaw and came to rest under his chin, elbow propped on the table in front of him.

A yawn contorted Dean's face as he scanned the room around him: dry wall and old carpet, a few pathetic cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, and a sagging green couch that looked like some kind of vegetable that was _way_ past its sell by date. Alright, it wasn't perfect, in fact, Sam had called it 'a bit of a shit hole, Dean', (complimented by bitch face no. 7- 'you know it') but it had been home for the past six months and now here he was, about to move into a freaking _brownstone_ for God's sake; and it was all because of little Sammy. Although, it's not like he was little nowadays, the sasquatch.

Dean hated to depend upon his kid brother; he wasn't used to it. But now Sam had made it through stanford, he was earning big money, much to the distaste of their father, John. So much for 'the family business', mechanics.

Dean shook his head to release the thoughts that seemed to be lodged there and stretched his arms high above his head, his back arching into the rickety chair he sat on as he did so. As he brought his arms slowly down, he took one last look at the photos of the place that was to be his home and closed the lid of the computer.

Dean pushed back his chair and stood, a slight shiver of both cold and apprehension quaking through him. There was a heaviness to the air tonight, a sense of something bigger,looming on the horizon.

 

## 2/CAS

Gently closing the door behind him, Castiel stepped into the hallway. Reaching up, he snagged his keys on the hook next to the mirror, and gently placing his Badge into the bowl beneath it, caught his own eye as he looked up. One side of his mouth twitched up and he addressed the rakish reflection.

'Agent.'

His other self stared back at him; grey semicircles under chips of blue ice, crowned by a shock of black hair still frosted with snowflakes.

Castiel sighed and ran his long, deft fingers through his untameable hair. They were artist's hands, made for holding a paintbrush or perhaps playing the piano; instead, they cradled a handgun or paperwork, the wrists of criminals and the shoulders of the bereaved. Agent Novak got through the day by thinking of those he had saved,  those kept safe by his work. 

Otherwise he wasn't sure if he'd make it. He saw so much pain, so much suffering, and all he wanted to do was fix it. But he was just one man. Today they had called in a woman, barely over thirty, to identify the body of a seven year old girl, her throat torn and her body broken. The woman had arrived in the lobby, nervous hands snatching at her limp hair, her sallow face, her brand new clothes that hung from her. Her eyes, unnaturally sunken, darted around, clinging to an object, then a person, before sprinting on to the next, her vision tripping over itself in the effort to devour all it could reach.

Castiel had watched as his partner Uriel, face dark and expressionless, led the woman by way of a gestured hand towards the broken reminder of a child. Towards a body too small for death, too ruined for life.

It killed him sometimes, the weight of living.

 

## 3/DEAN

 

 

"How did you ever get through Stanford?" muttered Dean behind a stupidly large instruction sheet as Sam tackled the flat pack it belonged to, managing only to wedge a splinter beneath his fingernail. Sam cursed and shot back,

"I heard that, Dean, and to answer your question-"

Dean didn't ever find out how sam got through stanford, since at that moment there was a horrific splintering of wood as the cheap and apparently flimsy chair Sam had just sat down on decided to expire, taking Sam along with it. Dean crammed a fist between his teeth and doubled over, body wracked with convulsions of silent laughter.

"Dude", managed dean in a strangled whisper, "you look like Donkey Kong, run over by one of his own barrels"

Sam just sighed, laid on his back with his hair pooled around him. This proved too much for Dean, who discarded the Swedish furniture assembly instructions and sat next to Sam with a thump, wheezing breath turning into howls of laughter,  eyes watering.

The brothers were _supposed_ to be moving Dean's stuff into the apartment, but since there wasn't really much to move, they'd made a trip to ikea. Turns out it took only a flat pack coffee table to bring a mechanic and a lawyer to their knees, or in Sam's case, his back. Dean was fairly sure his borderline hysterical laughter had to do with a lack of sleep; he'd been up for much of the night making sure everything was ready to move, though he'd never admit it to Sammy.

"Dude," hissed Sam, eyes going wide "it's _10am_ on a _Saturday_ "

Dean, mimicking Sam's urgent tone, whispered back "oh my _God_ , you're _right_." He paused.

"so what?"

Sam, now sat among the remainders of the chair, rolled his eyes impatiently and replied, "you do have neighbours now, Dean."

A pause.

"Oh. Right."

 

 


End file.
